


Peacock

by discolophon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar Owner Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Boys in Skirts, Castiel and Jimmy Novak are Twins, M/M, Multi, Semi-Public Sex, Skirts, Stiletto Heels, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discolophon/pseuds/discolophon
Summary: The twins are regulars at Dean's bar. Dean's a little obsessed with them.





	Peacock

The twins are regulars at Dean's bar. Tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, lush-lipped, identical twins. One of them always looks like he's just closed out his 9-5 in an office somewhere: jacket creased, tie loosened and askew, white button-up open at the collar, hair just barely clinging to the remnants of its morning neatness. The other one Dean has no idea how he spent his day, because more often than not, he comes into the bar with hair that looks either bedheaded or finger-fucked, and wearing a skirt.

Wearing the hell out of a skirt, frankly. Long, flowing skirts that fall from his square waist to billow and sweep around his legs as he strides along at his brother's side. Shorter skirts: slim ones that cling to his thickly-muscled thighs and what's got to be a runner's tight ass; freer ones that hint at what he's wearing beneath--or, maybe, not wearing--with each flutter and flare of fabric.

Up top, he wears t-shirts or henleys or--on fancier evenings--fitted button-downs and trim waistcoats. On his feet, Dean's seen everything from combat boots to flip-flops, kitten heels to Converse.

Dean's a little obsessed with the twins. Not because of their identical gorgeousness, or their anything-but-identical fashion sense. Not only because of them, anyway. More because he can't figure them out. They come in maybe three nights a week; on weekdays, usually, and usually only for an hour, two at the outside. They like to sit at a table, not at the bar, and they like their table to be somewhere in the shadows along the edges of the room. They order drinks, but not food. Once in a while--when it's been a bad day, Dean assumes--one of them will come in on a mission and get four or five drinks, hammer them back in the brief time they're there and leave weaving, but the other one's always responsible, one-and-done. It's not always Business Twin who drinks hard; it's not always Skirt Twin who's the D.D.

They don't play pool or darts. Neither of them ever tries to pick anybody up. They sit at their table--beside each other, not across--and people-watch, and tilt their heads together to talk or crack each other up. Or they sit quietly, comfortably, without talking. Or they split the difference and have weird, silent twin-conversations, evident only in their responsive expressions.

Some of which Dean's sure he's misinterpreting.

_____

It's a quiet night. Wednesdays usually are. Dean's been thinking of instituting a theme night or event or half-price something-or-other promotion to drum up some mid-week business, but he hasn't settled on anything yet.

Which is a good thing this Wednesday in particular, he thinks, when the twins come through the door--later than usual, close to midnight--and there's no thronging crowd to divide his suddenly riveted attention.

Tonight, Skirt's ankle-length, royal purple skirt--is it silk? Dean doesn't know fabric; it looks comfortable and shimmery and flows like water from Skirt's hips--is paired with a dark gray t-shirt that's so worn most of whatever was printed on the front is missing, but still clings to his broad shoulders like it has separation anxiety. And on his feet: stilettos.

Of course, Dean can't see his feet from all the way across the bar. But he _knows_. Skirt's suddenly a good five or six inches taller than Business, and his gait's--not off, because he's steady as ever, keeping up with his brother at his usual speed without a hitch or a wobble, but--different. His posture, the lines of his body, the angle of his hips as he strides across the room with effortless balance. With the steep cant of his heels, his calves and thighs and ass must be working constantly to compensate.

Dean stares, his mouth gone dry. He loses track of the beer he's pouring until foam spills all over his fingers, and as indications of his preoccupation go that might be a little on-the-nose, but fuck it. He forces himself to pay attention to his job long enough to hand the beer to his customer and collect payment, then sucks his knuckles clean while searching out the twins, who he finds sitting down at a table in the corner by the empty stage.

As he watches, Skirt shifts in his chair, rearranging his skirt around his legs and re-tucking his feet under the table, and Dean catches a tantalizing glimpse of a tall spike and a silver gleam.

A sharp swat on his ass makes him jump. He scowls at Pamela as she sidles suddenly between him and his view. "Roll up that tongue, boss," she says cheerfully. "Getting drool all over the bar's unsanitary."

"You're unsanitary," he grumbles automatically, flustered, and keeps scowling as she laughs and winks and heads off to take the twins' order.

They smile politely up at her when she approaches, and chuckle gamely at something she says before she turns to come back to the bar. Once she's left them, Business leans back in his chair and says something to Skirt, and as he turns toward his brother, his gaze catches Dean's.

Just for a second; just in passing. Business doesn't linger on the contact. Nevertheless, Dean can't pretend he hasn't been caught staring. He looks hurriedly away, heat prickling on the back of his neck, in his ears, in his cheeks, only for his attention to be pulled right back, irresistibly, by a warm bark of laughter. Business is focused on Skirt now, giving him a nose-crinkling, gum-baring, mischief-tinged grin; Skirt looks back impassively for a moment before tilting his head and arching one deliberate, thoughtful, _suggestive as fuck_ eyebrow.

"Jesus," Dean mutters weakly.

Pamela claps him on the shoulder as she passes behind him to pluck two bottles from the shelf. "Whisky neat and a Fireball on ice for Double Trouble."

Turning his back on the twins and their too-eloquent faces, Dean reaches for a couple clean glasses and nearly fumbles the whole damn tray right onto the floor. 

_____

It's a hell of a quiet night. The few mid-week patrons don't linger, drinking their drinks and paying their tabs and heading out instead of hanging out. The twins are the exception: after taking their time with their first drinks, they both order a second, holding down their table like Skirt's never been more comfortable than he is in this creaky wooden chair, like maybe Business doesn't have to go to work in the morning. They lean in close to each other, bending their heads to murmur into each other's ears; they lean back again to trade more of those wordless, speaking looks. Dean tries to ignore them until he just fucking can't anymore and leaves Pam behind the bar, retreating to his office with the excuse of catching up on admin.

Somehow, with the twins out of sight, he manages to make the excuse real. By the time Pam rings the last call bell, he's gotten so into his accounts he startles hard at the sound.

When he ducks back out into the bar, he darts a glance at the twins' table and sighs--half-relieved and half-wistful--to find it empty. The whole room's empty, actually, except for Pam lounging on a stool, playing Solitaire with the battered deck of cards that lives in the Lost & Found box. The pocked bartop and scratched tabletops gleam, already wiped down; the floor hasn't been mopped yet, but the chairs are up. The day's frankly pitiful receipts are stacked neatly by the register. There are no dirty dishes to be seen, and Dean bets that if Koko Taylor weren't wailing her way out of the sound system, he'd be able to hear the dishwasher running in the kitchen.

Leaning over Pamela's shoulder to survey her cards, he says, "Remind me why I even bother to come in on your shifts."

She smirks, collecting a run of cards and adding the whole thing to a foundation stack. "'Cause you know I like something pretty to look at while I'm working."

"Anything for employee morale." Tapping his finger on the bartop, he nods toward the door. "Take off. I'll finish up."

Pam tosses off an abbreviated salute. "Yessir." As she scoops up her cards and slips off her stool, she adds, "Oh, you just missed Benny. He dropped off a few cases of that new brew we're gonna test market for him. I put it in the store room."

Dean nods. "You try one?"

"Might have."

"What'd you think?"

"I think it'll sell."

"Yeah, Benny's stuff usually does. Talented bastard."

He watches from the door until Pamela's Harley's growled its way out of the parking lot, then locks the door and kills the sign. He thinks about where to start--Pam took care of a lot of the usual checklist, but there's still maybe an hour of shit to do before he can go home--and, first things first, decides to snag a bottle of Benny's latest recipe for himself. He's tried it already, back when Benny was making his pitch for test-marketing. But that was on tap at the brewery; Dean, being a professional, knows it's only smart to find out what a beer tastes like from the bottle, too.

He lopes through the bar and turns down the back hall, passes the kitchen and the bathrooms, and doesn't think much about the store room door sitting ajar as he pushes it fully open. Given how slow it was tonight, and how late it was when Benny stopped by, he assumes Pam just didn't bother locking it up after stowing his delivery.

Two steps into the store room, he stops dead, reevaluating his assumptions.

The room's not huge: about twenty feet long, not very wide, but not narrow enough to feel claustrophobic. Sturdy shelves line the brick walls, packed with cases of beer, wine, liquor, and mixers; under the shelves are more cases, kegs, boxes of non-perishables that won't fit in the kitchen, and a couple of broken chairs waiting to be fixed or junked. The only piece of wall without shelves is the end wall farthest from the door, which is where Dean usually parks the crate dolly. The dolly that's currently just inside the door, stacked with cases of Benny's beer.

In the dolly's usual space are the twins.

Skirt Twin's back is braced against the bricks, the hem of his tee riding up on one side, his messy-haired head tipped lazily back, the long column of his throat exposed. Business Twin's on his knees, hands buried in bunched-up purple fabric at Skirt's hips, holding the front of Skirt's skirt up as Skirt fucks his mouth at a leisurely pace. One of Skirt's long, muscular legs is bared to the world, hooked over Business's shoulder; with every easy rock of Skirt's hips, the wicked heel of his strappy silver stiletto digs into Business's back through his suit jacket and shirt. The back of the skirt, spilling down between Skirt's ass and the wall, sways with his movements, hypnotic.

Skirt sinks his hands into Business's hair and hums, low and luxuriating. "Knew we wouldn't make it home," he says, a rasp in his voice that goes straight to the base of Dean's spine. "We deserve a prize for making it this long after he sucked his--sucked his knuckles. Right after we walked in, those beautiful fucking lips of his--_fuck_, Jimmy. Suck me."

Dean's brain, which has already screamed to a halt over the sight before him, derails.

Skirt's talking about him. Skirt's dirty-talking about him. Skirt's dirty-talking about him while Business--Jimmy--sucks his dick in Dean's store room because they both got so turned on--_by him_\--that they couldn't fucking wait to get home to get off.

To get each other off.

Dean hasn't been misinterpreting _jack shit_ about those silent twin-conversations.

Movement drags his eyes down: one of Jimmy's hands has left Skirt's hips to grasp the thigh Skirt's got hitched over his shoulder, broad palm and long fingers curved on Skirt's bare skin. It's nowhere near the most obscene part of the picture they make together, but something about it--the shape of Jimmy's hand, the ease of his touch, the shift of Skirt's firm thigh beneath it--makes Dean's mouth water, makes his own palms itch and his fingers curl. The ache of his dick hardening steadily in his jeans makes him adjust his stance without thinking, and his shoes scrape faintly on the cement floor.

Skirt's eyes open.

There's nothing between them--it's a clear shot down the centre of the room from the door where Dean's standing to the piece of wall holding Skirt up--and Dean has his attention before he can even think to hide. Skirt's head lifts off the wall; his eyes widen, and he sucks in a loud breath, and his thick thigh and calf muscles flex on his brother's shoulder as his hips shove forward and grind. His arms cord with his grip on Jimmy's head, biceps straining in his short sleeves, and fuck, he's coming. Coming down Jimmy's throat, dark gaze fixed shamelessly on Dean.

"Holy shit," Dean breathes. Trapped in his clothes, his own dick twitches, leaking precome.

Skirt's hands on Jimmy's head go from clutching to petting. He rocks his hips once more, languidly, before drawing back. Dean can't see Skirt's spent cock slip out of Jimmy's mouth, but he sees Jimmy's neck and shoulders go loose, and hears Jimmy gasp raggedly, dragging in air. Shifting his balance, Skirt slides his leg off Jimmy's shoulder and stands fully, his skirt falling gracefully back down to his ankles.

He doesn't look away from Dean once.

"Jimmy," he says, one hand still raked in his brother's hair, and Dean shivers. Holy fuck, that _voice_. "Don't be alarmed, but we have an audience."

_____

Jimmy's about Dean's height, maybe an inch shorter. His body is broader than Dean's, his solid frame mostly hidden under his off-the-rack suit jacket. His cheeks and jaw are stubbled. His business shoes are flat, black, expected. When he and Dean are properly introduced, the knees of his suit pants are dusty from kneeling on the floor, his hair's a sex-ravished mess, and his thick lips are red, swollen, smiling.

Skirt Twin's name is Cas. In his stilettos, he towers over Dean. Like his brother, he's broad-shouldered, solid-framed, stubbled. When he moves, his shining silk skirt sweeps around his long, powerful legs.

Dean wants Cas to shove him face-first against the wall. He wants to feel the front of Cas's skirt bunched up against the small of his back while Cas fucks him. He wants Jimmy to watch; then, once Cas is done with him, he wants to get on his knees and suck Jimmy's cock, wants to feel the fabric of Jimmy's suit jacket and dress shirt brush against his face as Jimmy uses his mouth and spills down his throat.

Unfortunately, the blowjob Dean walked in on was the store room's second act: before Jimmy went to his knees, Cas jerked him off onto the inside of Cas's skirt, a detail that nearly takes care of Dean all on its own when they show him the stain.

"Fuck," he says articulately, staring.

"Give us an hour," Jimmy says, and kisses him, hot and wet and with the faintest hint of cinnamon under what must be the taste of Cas.

_____

Dean sprawls bonelessly on the twins' massive, ridiculously comfortable bed, getting his breath back. If he turns his head to the left, he can see Cas beside him, finally skirtless, his tanned skin still flushed and glistening with sweat. If he turns his head to the right, he can see the twins' closet and the array of skirts hanging neatly inside: varying lengths and rainbows of colours, solid and patterned and shining and matte. Some of them he recognizes, having seen Cas wearing them at the bar. Others catch his eye because he hasn't seen Cas in them, but definitely wants to. "Hey, Cas?"

Drowsily, Cas hums.

Dean rolls toward him, hooks his thigh over Cas's, likes the way Cas spreads his legs to make room for him. Splaying his hand over the swell of Cas's ribs, he trails slow kisses across his clavicle and up his throat. He tells him, voice pitched low, "You look really fucking good in those skirts."

"Yes," Cas agrees, so simply and readily that it knocks Dean off-kilter until he props himself up to look at Cas's face and sees the pleased smile and dry humour in his eyes.

"He likes to dress up for me," Jimmy says, half teasing pride and half genuine appreciation. Dean looks up to find him leaning in the doorway with two tumblers of water, watching them with a satisfied air. Dean sits up as Jimmy returns to the bed, and takes one of the glasses and an easy kiss. He watches Jimmy card Cas's hair affectionately as Cas drinks down most of the other glass before handing the rest back to Jimmy to finish.

It occurs to Dean--really fucking belatedly--that their frequent evenings spent together in his bar are probably date nights.

"For you, too, Dean," Cas says. When Dean blinks at him, his subtle smile turns obvious, crinkling his eyes and nose and pulling happily at his mouth. "We saw you watching us on the nights we came in, but you never approached us. Eventually we decided I should...peacock."

"Oh." Dean blushes. He shouldn’t, given that Cas and Jimmy have said much filthier things to and about him before now, but warmth washes across his skin anyway. "Well, I'd apologize for being an awkward creep, but..." he gestures at the state of them, Dean next to Cas next to Jimmy, naked and sated and sharing idle touches between them, a pretty damn clear indication that things turned out okay.

"But then _we'd_ have to apologize for defiling your store room," Jimmy finishes, and arches his brow forbiddingly even as he reaches across Cas to skim mischievous fingers over Dean's nipple.

Laughing--sensitive--Dean flops down onto his back to escape. He's never going to be able to park his crate dolly against that wall without seeing the twins there again. "You two are so fucking lucky I sent Pamela home when I did."

"Pamela's the woman who served us all night while you hid in your office?" Cas confirms, stretching out again next to him. When Dean--with an offended frown at Cas's phrasing--nods, he tilts his head thoughtfully on his pillow. "My impression of her is that she would react positively to finding us the way you did."

"Enthusiastically," Jimmy agrees, laying his head on Cas's shoulder and fitting his palm to Dean's hip, thumb sweeping arcs on his pelvis. "Encouragingly. Participatorily."

Dean chokes and sputters and has to sit up to grab his water glass off the end table for another drink. Somehow, he hadn't thought about it like that. "Jesus," he coughs when his breathing's under control again. "Yeah, Pam probably wouldn't have just stood there tongue-tied until you noticed her."

"But she wouldn't have gotten nearly the reception you did," Cas says seriously, and Dean kisses him, and then Jimmy, in a doomed attempt to hide yet another blush.


End file.
